Fate Mundi Bellum
by Lord Mist
Summary: The Third World War has begun. Only this time, it's not going to be fought with tanks, guns and planes. It's going to be fought with Servants. Welcome to the first Holy Grail World War. [AU]
1. Preparations

Hi guys! To start off, I own nothing.

Second, I apologise for how some countries are portrayed/going to be portrayed, but I need some antagonists. Please be assured this is not a reflection of actual feelings for the nation in question; this fic is set in an Alternate Universe where the nations behaved differently.

* * *

"Are we in agreement, gentlemen?"

There was an uneasy silence over the room, the sounds of clothes rustling as people shifted in their chairs clearly audible in the stillness. Most were throwing glances around, observing each other's reactions.

"Come now," said the same speaker, "surely you must admit this is the best way."

A general murmur indicating assent filled the room, but no one seemed any less uneasy.

"Well," continued the man, "I think I speak for the whole of Europe when I say-"

"Excuse me," said another voice, "but you don't."

The man shrugged in irritation. "Very well, if you wish to be pedantic, I speak for the whole of Europe _except the United Kingdom_-" and he shot a glance at the man who interrupted, as if to say, _happy now?_ "-in confirming our support and participation in this plan."

"The United Kingdom agrees as well." replied the man who had interrupted.

The European delegate made a shrugging motion to the room. _Really,_ it said,_ how eccentric and touchy these English are!_

Four men sitting together glanced warily at each other, before one spoke up. "We confirm the participation of the Asian Federation as well."

"I must disagree!" said another man, standing up. "The reason you have agreed is because your mythology is widespread! You possess an overwhelming advantage!"

"Come now, dear sir," replied the European, amused, "you speak as if you are on equal footing with us even with conventional weaponry."

The man grit his teeth, sitting down and remaining silent.

"The Americas agree." replied another, and the hall was hardly surprised: Where the United Kingdom went, the Americas were bound to go. Colonies in all but name, they were.

The hall stared at the two delegates remaining. The European delegate quirked an eyebrow. The United Kingdom delegate leaned forward, the American delegate mimicking him.

"Polynesia agrees." said one man, posture slumping as if in defeat.

The man who had argued stood up once more, anger etched over his face. "The States of Africa agree." he spat, whirling around and exiting the room.

"Excellent." replied the European, "shall we say…two weeks from now, in Area-271B?"

Another general murmur of assent erupted around the room, and delegates grabbed their papers and briefcases, rushing to the airfields.

There was no time to waste in the first Holy Grail World War, after all.

* * *

Ved Krishna rubbed his palms as he finished his summoning circle, placing the carefully guarded piece of rock he had brought with him as a catalyst on it. The Government of India had spent a lot of trouble acquiring one of these, and they depended on him to make it count. If he got who he was aiming for, there wouldn't even be any uncertainty as to the outcome.

"_Aayasi!"_ he called, using the ancient language of Sanskrit in an effort to ensure his summoning was perfect. He had to bypass millennia to summon the person he wished for, and every little bit helped.

An eruption of smoke burst forth, and Ved stepped back, watching hungrily as it cleared. In front of him stood the most majestic person he had seen, towering over Ved easily, at least eight feet tall and massively broad-shouldered. He wore a golden crown, jewellery and armour, partly cloaked by a green _dhoti_, a sort of skirt. His face was so fierce, so menacing that Ved flinched back instinctively, and in that instant, knew he had failed with his summoning.

For whatever else Lord Ram Chandra was, he was never this massive or this fierce.

"My lord," bowed Ved, speaking in flawless Sanskrit, "I am your humble partner in this endeavour. I beseech thee to aid me. May I know of your illustrious identity?" His catalyst had after all been a most powerful one, and it was always best to treat Servants with the best obedience possible.

When the man spoke his name, Ved didn't know whether to cry or laugh at the irony of it all. He had summoned the exact opposite of his desired result.

Still, at least the class – Archer – was correct.

* * *

Wei Xu glanced over at his Indian ally. Clearly, the man had failed – the brief expression that had flickered across his face told Wei everything he needed to know. And now he was _bowing_, of all things, to his Servant. Wei had been taught that one must establish dominance for a suitable relationship to form, and he intended to do just that when the smoke cleared.

He saw a man, rather fierce of expression, long, bushy red hair and untamed beard, wearing ancient Chinese battle armour and with a red-and-gold staff slung across his back. The man broke out into a wide grin, showing off his inhumanly sharpened teeth, and began bouncing in place.

"I am the Great Sage Equalling Heaven!" he shouted, "I am the Keeper of the King of Heaven's Horses! I am the Greatest General! I am the King of Monkeys! I am Sun Wuk—ong!"

Wei felt irritation. He had summoned the right person but he had no doubts about that. He wasn't incompetent, like his Indian ally. Yet why did his Servant insist on _exposing_ himself so publicly? They were allies for now, but who knew what would happen in the future? No, he would have to chastise the man.

"I am your Master." deadpanned Wei, "now kneel before me."

A flicker of surprise crossed the Servant's face, before an unholy grin broke out. "Yes, Master!" shouted the Servant, approaching within arm's length of Wei and falling into a quick bow.

Wei smiled. Now this was how you handled a Servant. He glanced over at Ved, intending to show him how to do things, but Ved seemed to be torn between laughter and surprise. Also, why did his legs feel cold?

Wei glanced downwards, and nearly fell over in shock. That- that Servant! He had- he had- pulled Wei's pants down around his ankles!

Said Servant was now leaping around the room shrieking loudly in excitement, pointing and laughing at Wei's misfortune.

"LANCER!"

* * *

The room had inevitably quietened when Sa'd al-Malik and the woman known only as Izanami had walked in. The former never said anything, inscrutable in his loose robes that covered everything except his face. His face twitched slightly in disapproval at seeing Sun Wukong hanging from the ceiling rafters and shrieking his name, with Wei blushing furiously and begging him to come down. He was followed by a humanoid figure that looked to be made of shadow, with a bone-white mask on it. Both Ved and a distracted Wei instantly knew it was Hassan-i-Sabbah – one of him, at least.

Izanami, on the other hand, was a homunculus created by the Japanese: her code-name indicated her as the strongest female homunculus they had designed, her body full to the brim with prana, her unblinking red eyes, black hair and delicate features hiding a beast of monstrous physical strength – compared to the average magi, although nowhere near Servants.

Still, it seemed that she had succeeded with her plan, for the massive bald figure that walked behind her, weapons all over his body, silent, unmoving and eyes of glowing red was clearly a Berserker. The Servant's strength backed by Izanami's prana would make them incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to defeat.

"…Pathetic." said Izanami, and Wei felt anger rising in him. Ved said nothing, having long given up on reacting to the woman's insults.

Sa'd al-Malik remained silent, tossing a paper down on the sole table in the room. TRAVEL ITINERARY, it said. Ved groaned, reading where the location was. He had to admit it was a fair location, but he wasn't used to the cold at all!

"Time to plan." said Sa'd, and the four Masters sat down on chairs seemingly conjured from sand with a wave of his hand. Three Servants stood behind them at their shoulders, contributing to the discussion. The fourth, however, was contributing in his own way, flinging pieces of wood from the ceiling down on the discussion, mischief in his eyes.

The four ignored him, continuing on with their plans.

Whatever you do, after all, do it only with a plan.

* * *

"Ready, brother?"

"Ready, brother."

With simultaneous flashes of light, two Summoning Circles flared into existence, the two Masters that waited beside them uncannily resembling each other. Castor and Pollux, the _Twins of the Wind_: famous greek magi, named after the twins of legend, were an obvious choice for the European Union's squad of magi. Devastating in raw power, unmatched in teamwork and with ties to one of the oldest mythologies in existence, it would be suicidal to leave them out.

Castor grinned. Pollux smiled. They were successful.

"Say, brother," said Castor, as they waited for the smoke to clear, "I wish we had been allowed to summon without a catalyst."

"We might have got matching Servants, yes," replied Pollux, "but you know, brother, that this way we get stronger Servants."

Castor nodded sheepishly, and Pollux smiled once more.

Two figures stood in front of them. The one in front of Castor was a slimly built man, his face obscured by a helmet in the tradition of ancient Greece, his body radiating faint golden light, although Castor didn't know whether it was because of the golden armour he wore or his body.

"Servant Rider has come to assist you in your quest." said the man.

The one in front of Pollux was much more ruggedly built, although still not of monstrous proportions. He too, wore a Greek helmet, and armour over his legs, but left his torso bare. A shield was fastened to his left arm, a spear slung across his back, and a sword at his waist.

"Servant Berserker is here." he growled, eyes flashing red.

Castor and Pollux smiled at each other and high-fived. They had done it.

* * *

In the next room, Franz Leider was swearing.

"Ach! You! Stain on my country! " screamed Franz in disgust.

The Servant in front of him merely bowed quietly, his military uniform's numerous medals jingling with the movement. His clean-shaven, aristocratic features were set in a mask of remorse. "I only wish for repentance."

Franz let his glance fall on the hooked, black cross on the Servant's military officer cap and spat on the floor. His Servant would have to show him his sincerity before Franz would accept _this_ Rider.

Franz knew the man was supposed to be one of the more humane soldiers in the war, and he had tried to put an end to things. That, however, didn't remove from the fact that he had served great evil willingly.

No, Franz wouldn't forgive so easily.

* * *

Alessandra de Luca toyed with the dagger in her hand as she watched her Servant emerge from the smoke. His outfit was clearly Roman in its antiquity, and he certainly – she licked her lips – looked good, short hair over regal, yet earthy, features. His hands and arms were brawny and callused, speaking of time in war. Alessandra smirked, as she flicked her dagger, aiming straight for her Servant's head.

It was deflected in an instant with one of his own.

Alessandra turned and walked out. "Come, Assassin." The man followed.

The European Union was ready.

* * *

In London, another two men simultaneously called forth their Servants, although this time there was nothing alike about the two.

One, dressed faultlessly in evening dress, perfectly creased suit and immaculately knotted silk tie. The other, in a shirt with a few buttons open, badly maintained pants, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. The former wrinkled his nose in disdain. The latter made a gesture with his fingers, telling the former where he could go.

The two Servants stepped forth as one, the one opposite Kent, the faultlessly dressed man, wearing a crown over a rusted helmet, full body chainmail and a breastplate with the cross of St. George on it. A sword hung at his hip, and his steely eyes, partially obscured by bushy red-brown eyebrows, gazed at Kent with confidence. His strong jaw tense, his slightly unkempt moustache and beard speaking of some hardship. The one opposite O'Shea, the other man, also wore a crown – although he was much more regal-looking than the first. A highly stylised, ornate crown perched atop unruly silver-blonde hair, embossed golden armour shining, his hand glowing ethereal silver. A long broadsword was fastened at his back. A scar ran across his face but detracted nothing from his fine features.

Both spoke. "Servant Saber has come."

Kent's lips twitched. O'Shea grinned widely, not caring as his cigarette dropped to the floor.

The United Kingdom was in business.

* * *

The Americas were poor. Colonies of Britain in all but name, their prodigious wealth had gone towards funding better and better projects in the United Kingdom, with the leftovers being channelled towards the needs of the Americans.

The Rebel Government was not happy. Their military might dwarfed by the United Kingdom's, they were forced to watch as a puppet government despoiled their nation. Now, they had a chance.

"Unfortunately, we don't have good catalysts." spoke the President bitterly. "The two of you will have to make do with these."

The two mages bowed, and began the ritual.

"Remember," continued the President of the Rebels, "you pretend to support our _friends_-" the last word was all but spat out "the English, but you _have_ to win. The nation depends on you."

The two mages didn't respond, focusing entirely on their summonings.

Jill Murphy watched with bated breath as a figure stepped out of the smoke in front of her. Wearing a coonskin cap, a jacket of bear fur and with a rifle in his hand, Jill knew who this was instantly. One of the Rebellion's heroes. She couldn't have done better.

"I've come ridin' a streak of lightnin', missy! Archer is here for ya!"

Cetanwakuwa – _Attacking Hawk, _to translate his native Sioux – watched carefully as his Servant stepped forth. Dressed in what he recognised as Incan robes, Cetanwakuwa watched as the man stepped forth, a glowing orange lance embossed with a stylised image of the Sun on it in his hand. Red robes swished as he walked. "Servant Lancer has descended from the Sun and arisen from the lake to rule this war."

Cetanwakuwa – 'Ketty' to Jill, who honestly couldn't pronounce his name – thought that they might have a slightly better chance than they had expected.

* * *

Unknown to both Balun and Adeben Kwame, their summonings were similar, even though they were separated by thousands of miles. Both were from nations whose myths were not widespread enough to compete with most other countries. Both were weak magi who didn't know how they would survive. Both had the weights of a whole nation on their shoulders.

For both, the Grail decided it would help out. No simple heroes would be summoned – oh, no.

For Balun, his summoning was accompanied by the rushing sound of water and a rainbow spontaneously forming over the part of the Outback he was located in. A dark-skinned man in traditional aboriginal robes stepped forward, and Balun fell to his knees. He knew instantly this was no man. No, this was something more.

For Adeben Kwame, his summoning was accompanied by a sudden outpouring of spiders from his summoning circle, spiders that had not been in the Sahara a moment ago. An old man, back bent double with age, leaning on a staff and his long white beard touching his knees. Adeben Kwame unconsciously imitated Balun, falling to his knees and bowing. He knew who this was. Which African didn't?

Both divine forces in human form spoke, the former hissing and the latter smiling. "Servant Caster has formed."

Perhaps the African Union and Polynesia had a chance after all.

* * *

So? How was it? Go ahead and review!

Try guessing the Servants too ;)


	2. Arrival

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did own FSN, I would at least be rich enough to own my own laptop.

* * *

It was the first mover advantage, and there were no two ways about it, really.

Area 271-B was situated in the geographic region known as the Antarctic, a secret, hidden faux city constructed originally for scientists to use for their experiments. The scientists had long since left; all of them had been quickly shepherded out of the area, much to their protests, and were now on their flights back home, wondering what all the rush was about. Many of them had initially protested vehemently, refusing to move, and had been summarily knocked unconscious by the security personnel, then dragged forcibly to the planes awaiting them. This sight drastically reduced the resistance of the remaining scientists, who had gone quietly, although many had threatened to cause international incidents once they returned home.

The Asian Federation, their base being geographically closer to the Area in question, possessed a distinct advantage. The time taken by all the sides in question for the Summoning ritual would probably vary only by an hour or so; although the Europeans had proposed this like it was a new idea, in truth the people in power knew this was what was going to happen, and they had their catalysts and mages on standby. The only difference in arrival times, then, was going to be the flight time to reach the Antarctic.

And this meant the Asian Federation had touched down on the lone airstrip in the faux city first.

"I doubt any of our enemies will use this strip for their landing." said Sa'd al-Malik, his bulky white clothing fluttering in the strong winds. "They will be aware of the dangers."

Ved, shivering, nodded his head. He really wasn't used to this cold!

"Regardless, I will request Assassin," continued Sa'd, gesturing at the obsidian shadow standing inhumanly still behind him, "to position himself near the airstrip should we observe any aircraft arriving."

"A better plan would be to get Archer to shoot down the plane in the air." cut in Izanami, voice harsh.

Ved looked up at his Archer, and didn't think the idea was very likely. Archer looked slightly offended at the thought. "That is not honourable. The battle begins when they land."

Izanami spat in disgust, the saliva freezing instantly due to the antarctic winds. Archer tensed slightly, and Berserker took a step forward. Sa'd motioned both backwards, trying to maintain the peace.

"And what of you, Monkey King? Too honourable to attack?" continued Izanami, shifting her glare to Wei.

"Of course he wi-" started Wei, only to get cut off by his Servant. "Of course not! It's no fun that way!" Wei grit his teeth, but his wayward Servant wasn't finished, "And you! You're no fun either! No fun no fun no fun no fun!"

"Berserker." shrieked Izanami, whirling around to face her silent mass of muscle, "you will attack any aircraft before it lands!"

The muscular figure nodded once and remained still again. Izanami, pleased, stomped her foot once on the ground and walked away in a huff. The Monkey King cheekily waved to her departing back, grinning wildly as he did so.

Sa'd sighed. "You have your contact devices?"

The two remaining nodded silently.

"Good. I will see you later."

With a flourish, Sa'd and Assassin were obscured by a thin veil of sand, and the two disappeared. Wei and Ved looked at each other helplessly. Now what?

"So, do you follow cricket?" asked Ved, trying to break the awkward silence.

Wei _glared_ at him and walked away, the shrieking Monkey King behind him.

"I guess that's a no then." he mumbled.

* * *

Jill Murphy was uneasy. Was it really right to be sharing an airplane with people who had oppressed her country? More importantly, could she hide all evidence of her eventual betrayal from them? Who was to say one of these two didn't have some sort of mind-reading magic?

"A girl and an Indian, that's all we get from the colonies?" questioned O'Shea, the glint in his eyes revealing he was being intentionally provocative. The Irishman was stretched out on the luxuriously upholstered couch in their private airplane, his loudly-patterned shirt partly opened, revealing a bit more fat than was strictly in good taste. He made a dismissive motion with his hand, the cigarette clutched in it wafting smoke mockingly near the boldly placed 'NO SMOKING' sign.

Jill closed her hands tightly, wrinkling the fabric of her slacks. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cetty give no reaction whatsoever, and she forced herself to let go, to lean back once more, and to ignore the uncouth man in front of her.

"It's a lady and a Native American warrior, actually, O'Shea." frowned Kent, returning from the in-flight bar with a crystal glass of champagne. "I'm not surprised someone as uncouth as you doesn't know that."

"Piss off, Kent." shot back the Irishman.

Cetanwakuwa spoke, for the first time in a while, Jill realised, "Winter clothing."

There was a general murmur of assent, and the four slowly got up and stretched, working out the kinks from their long flight, intending to make their way to the lockers containing their winter clothing. They were due to land in ten minutes, and every minute was precious.

Then Jill's Archer materialised behind her, shattered the window of the plane with the butt of his rifle, and started shooting outside the plane.

"Archer!" screamed Jill, "What's going on?"

"Bloody hell, girl, is your Servant bloody insane?" asked O'Shea, his voice betraying a slight tremor at the sudden excitement. As soon as Archer had materialised, the other three Servants did so as well. What if Archer had planned to attack their Masters?

"What is the problem?" rumbled Kent's Servant, while O'Shea's had drawn his sword without comment. Cetanwakuwa's Lancer was, oddly enough, noted a small part of Kent's mind, facing _against_ the two Sabers as if backing up Archer. It was only for a fraction of a second though, and Lancer shifted to a more neutral stance instantly.

Archer turned back from the window, grinning. "No need ta' worry, folks! Ole Archer saves the day!"

"Archer," drawled Kent, "what on earth happened?"

"Some dayum louse tried ta' take us out with some sort o' kee-razy spear thing!"

"What?!" said Kent, rushing to the window. Cetanwakuwa was there already, pointing silently at a black figure that stood ominously silhouetted against the white snow.

"But…how on earth?!" asked Kent, mostly to himself. "We weren't even near the airstrip of the faux city! How did they find us?"

Jill fought hard to control her trembling. They hadn't even landed, and the Holy Grail World War had begun already. "Archer," she said, forcing her voice to remain even, "thank you."

"No need ta' thank me, missy!" grinned Archer, saluting wildly and spinning his rifle before slinging it on his back once more. "Just doin' my duty!"

O'Shea silently ground out his cigarette, leaving a bad burn mark on the couch. His expression seemed to say, _this is war now_. Kent was pacing frantically up and down the plane, muttering plans and counter-plans to himself. Jill chewed her nails nervously. The Servants stared silently at them, more used to war, but ready to allow the green mages a few minutes to regain their bearings.

"Must get ready." rumbled Cetanwakuwa once more, and the three other mages snapped out of their individual ponderings, heading quickly to the lockers to get changed.

If there was an increased urgency in their steps now, none of the Servants commented on it.

* * *

Izanami frowned at the plane, her Berserker standing silently beside her. Her attack on them had failed completely. They had _had_ to have an Archer on their plane, hadn't they? It was so frustrating! If only that Indian lout had controlled his Servant properly, she just _knew_ they could have shot down that plane easily. She might have thought the Indian incompetent, but she knew who he had summoned, and she couldn't deny that his Archer was powerful. Besides, she noted that the unknown Servant had used what appeared to be bullets to shoot down her Berserker's powerfully tossed trident, and any modern Servant was _bound_ to be weaker than anything they had summoned.

Turning away in a mild tantrum, she beckoned for Berserker to follow her. She might be strong, and Berserker powerful, but she wasn't blind enough to think they could take on who-knew-how-many Servants at one go.

She would just have to wait for another chance. And next time, _none would escape her._

* * *

The European Union had reached the Antarctic without incident. Primarily this was due to their method of transport. Franz had rejected the conventional ideas of flying in as unsafe, and the four had arrived – by nuclear-powered submarine.

"I told you, _Fraulein,_ that this would be a safe route, _nein_?" said Franz, once the four and their Servants were on land – or rather ice – once more.

"I could have brought us here faster than this." grumbled Castor's golden Rider.

Castor smiled to himself. Pollux grinned.

"Yes, darling, but your ride would have made us stand out, you know?" breathed Alessandra, shimmying closer to Rider and conveying the impression that she was looking solely at him.

"You are right, alas!" replied Rider, theatrically. "My vessel is far too grand to remain inconspicuous."

Alessandra smiled wickedly once more, moving closer to him and taking his elbow casually. Rider seemed to welcome this development, and Franz looked away.

Berserker growled at them, clearly displeased with this time-wasting spectacle.

"We had best make our way to the battlefield." he said, his voice gravelly.

"I believe, _signora_, that he is correct." cut in Alessandra's Assassin, seemingly unaffected by his Master's behaviour.

"Oh, don't tell me we have to _walk_ there! Rider, can't you do something?" asked Alessandra, eyes widening dramatically.

"I believe I can." cut in Franz's uniformed Rider, before the golden Rider could respond, earning him a frown from the other man.

Franz gestured, asking him to go ahead.

The air before Rider _warped_, and two jeeps, each painted white-and-blue for camouflage and driven by a silent, unmoving man in uniform, appeared. As the party got in, it was hard not to notice the conspicuously mounted machine guns on their bonnets. Franz stared at the two men driving the vehicles with a mixture of hostility and disgust, seemingly fighting with himself for a minute before resigning himself to riding in the vehicle. Even then, he made sure to stay in the back seat of one of the jeeps, far away from both his Servant, who was up front, and the driver.

"My vessel is much better." said the golden Rider, as he arrogantly lounged on one seat of the other jeep. "Where is the adventure, the mystery of one of these- one of these- what are they?"

"Jeeps." replied the other Rider, laconically.

"And! Look at this, this person controlling this vehicle." continued the golden Rider, tapping the driver rhythmically with one finger. "He's just a normal man!"

"Oh, darling," replied Alessandra, as she lay down, resting her head on the golden Rider, "not every vessel can be as _amazing_ as yours!"

"Very true." nodded the golden man.

The other Rider made no comment, and the party moved away slowly into the distance.

* * *

When the Asian Federation believed themselves to be the first to land on the airstrip, they were right. However, when they believed that this meant they were the first to reach the Area, they were sadly mistaken.

Two people, acting independently, had got there before them. Both had summoned beings of great and almost divine power as their Servants. Both had been instantly transported to the location by a simple spell. Simple to their Servants, nearly death-causing to modern magi. Due to the vagaries of fate, they missed each other; and both were now engaged in the process of setting up their bases on coincidentally opposite ends of the faux city.

"I suppose I should tell you, Master," said the old man, smiling broadly, "there's someone else I can detect with magical power equal to mine."

"E-Equal?!" said Adeben, the idea sending him a few paces back in shock. He knew full well how strong his Servant was – and there was someone equally strong magically?!

"What's more," continued his Servant, "he can probably detect me, just like I can detect him."

"He-he what?" stuttered Adeben, his mind working furiously. "We should – should take him out quickly! What if he attacks?!"

"Oh, don't worry yourself, Master." smiled his Servant, his eye twinkling. "I'm sure he, or she – we want to be gender equal, don't we now – knows that if they attack me, we'll both probably have a highly visible and long-drawn-out battle, and that would cause other, enemy Servants to approach us and strike us down. It's a lose-lose situation for both of us."

"What if he has allies?"

"I doubt it, Master. I sensed only his presence until an hour ago, when more, significantly weaker presences became known."

Adeben sat down heavily on a chair, wiping away the dust accumulated in it. One way having scientists evacuated was good – they had left all their food supplies in the buildings and he was currently in one of the largest storehouses.

In a battle such as this, control of resources might prove crucial. Not if it ended quickly, as it might, but if it turned out to be a long-drawn out fight – well, then, Masters were only human, weren't they? It all, of course, depended on the identities of the Servants summoned and how their Noble Phantasms matched up against each other.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"A good question." replied his Servant. "I believe an alliance might be beneficial to both of us, and there is no harm in trying. I shall send one of my children out on it." Caster lifted a small spider on his finger and placed it gently on the ground, amongst hundreds of its brethren. "Go, do your work!"

With a muted skittering, the room was empty of all save two people once more.

* * *

"Look, Master," hooted the Monkey King, "look what I found!"

Irritated, Wei turned around to find his maniacal Servant clutching some sort of black thing in his palm. "What did you find?" ground out Wei.

"This!" Sun Wukong held out his hand, displaying a live spider frantically trying to escape his paws.

"It's just a spider!" yelled Wei, "Just a- a- spider?! Lancer! Where did you get it? It probably belongs to some enemy of ours, either a mage or his Servant, and they're using it to spy on us! Get rid of it!"

"Spy on us?" chuckled Lancer, sticking the spider close to his face. "Hello!" he waved, grinning broadly at the terrified arachnid. "Can you hear me, Spy-Guy?!"

Wei made an undefinable noise and slapped his palm down on the spider, killing it. Really, his Servant was an absolute pain.

Still, this raised interesting questions. Was this spider one of the mages' familiars? Or was it a Servant's? If it was a Servant's, whose could it be? The only spider-related myth Wei could think of off the top of his head was that of Arachne, and he _highly _doubted a Greek mage would pick _her_ over the multiple better Servants available to them.

Still, the opening salvoes had been fired, it seemed. Tracer bullets locked on. Eyes in the shadows set. It was too bad for the hidden mastermind that Wei meant to act like a bazooka and blow away all their careful planning once he met them.

* * *

So? How was it? Reviews welcome!

Any guesses as to the Servants' identities? Someone's already got one right!


	3. First Blood

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did own FSN, I would at least be rich enough to own my own laptop.

* * *

**Note One:** The system for Masters observing the skills of Servants is different in this story. Often, the stats of a Servant are vital, and hiding them is of crucial advantage. Therefore, instead of being able to see a Servant's stats on sight, enemy Masters will only be able to see it 'once it has been used' to make it more realistic. For example, only after [Personal Skill] comes into effect once in the sight of enemy Masters can they identify it correctly. The same goes for all the stats.

**Note Two: **The stats of the Servants are collected and placed under a separate 'story' entitled "Fate Mundi Bellum: Statsheets". Please go there to satisfy your curiosity. Note that only the stats as revealed in the story will be noted there. Updates will happen as more is revealed.

* * *

The Holy Grail was an artefact of miracles. One of its many miracles was the giving of corporeal form to Heroic Spirits – the Third True Magic, 'Heaven's Feel'. It is incomprehensible to humankind that a person lost to history, nothing more than a remembered memory and mish-mash of exaggerated legends is given spiritual form once more, 'brought back to life' as it were. Yet perhaps the most wonderful of all its many miracles, to the curious, is the answer to the questions that bothered them – if Hercules and Dracula fought, for example, who would win? Atalanta versus Karna? Arturia Pendragon versus Alexander the Great?

An often underestimated facet of this is the answer to another question asked by fewer people. If, for example, Heroic Spirit X teamed up with Heroic Spirit Y, how powerful would the combination be? If Julius Caesar and Napoleon worked together, would their army ever be capable of being beaten?

And this assumes staggering proportions when certain conditions are met. If two forces of nature, almost Gods in their own right, pooled their magical might, would any Servants, already weakened from fighting others, be able to resist them?

Adeben Kwame believed the answer to be 'No'. Balun agreed with him.

And so an alliance was formed, strategies discussed, and magical talents channelled together to one goal. Polynesia and the African union would show the 'superpowers' that they were not to be forgotten – **after** they were forgotten while the superpowers fought each other, and when they realised they still had fresh, rested, prepared opponents to fight – then they would enjoy the look on the mages' faces as they realised their plan of forcing countries they thought weak into a game that disadvantaged them had backfired. They would win.

And if neither of them fully trusted the other – if spiders watched Balun silently, and the water in Adeben's room had eyes – then that was only natural, after all.

* * *

The icy wind whistled through the deserted city, leaving tiny ice crystals on each building it encountered. Jill shivered inside her multiple layers of clothing as she walked down the deserted roads. It was a bad move to be walking around alone, she knew; but she just had to have a little time to herself to collect her thoughts. The War was terrifying in its scope – they had not yet landed when they had been attacked, and if it had not been for the sharpness of Archer's eyes, they might have perished. Jill shivered once more, though whether it was from fear or cold she didn't know or want to know; the first meant she was a coward, and the second meant she was ill-prepared, both fatal flaws in a mage.

Her mind played back the words of the President of the American Rebels. She and Cetty had to not only survive and win the Grail World War, but in doing so had to betray the United Kingdom. She shivered as she considered them. O'Shea's overwhelming arrogance didn't completely hide the innate flint-edged stoniness that she could make out inside him. She had heard that he was involved in the Irish Rebellion that killed over a thousand people a year, and she didn't doubt it. Rumors had often circulated to other countries about explosions that seemed to occur when there were no bombs in sight, and everyone 'in the know' knew it to be the work of a mage. Of course, there were multiple mages in the Rebellion, and it need not have been O'Shea's work, but the 'Explosives Killer' had the highest body count and she suspected it of being him. Kent, on the other hand, presented a much more understated danger. It was like a lion's soul trapped in bars of silk, she thought to herself whimsically. Shredding claws hidden under the trappings of civilisation. While O'Shea proclaimed his aggression, Kent hid it – but both were from the same breed of ruthless men who had made the United Kingdom so powerful that it could not only maintain a large colony but also defy the European Union while doing so.

And that wasn't even considering their Servants. Two Sabers, the most powerful class, working together – how on earth could an Archer and a Lancer defeat not one, but two of the Sabers from the United Kingdom?

_We need to plan more. A lot mo- what was that?I_

Her ears twitched a little as she made out the noise. It sounded like a slight rumbling, and she realised quickly that it was the sound of an engine. Maybe more than one. She was lucky, to an extent. Her magecraft had always focused on enhancing her senses to a superhuman degree, and she had known it would come in handy during most battles. Of course, her original purpose had been to spy out United Kingdom troop movements for the Rebel Army, but it clearly worked in her favour here as well.

Quickly, she turned and dashed back to where her companions were setting up base, in one of the buildings near the centre of the city. If they were to begin their fight, what better option than attacking enemies while they were travelling?

A few buildings down the street which she had been walking, Sa'd relaxed as he realised he had waited too long to attack the woman. Clearly, he thought, as he absent-mindedly dusted a spider off his robes, she had realised how stupid it was to wander alone. Still, she didn't seem very aware of her surroundings, and Sa'd returned to his silent vigil. Someone would come by, he was sure of it.

And when they did – they were as good as dead.

The spider, unnoticed, hurried into one of the drains in the house he was situated in and disappeared.

* * *

Izanami smiled broadly as she sensed the new arrivals. The plane had been beyond most of Berserker's techniques, but this new vehicle – or rather, the two new vehicles – were certainly on the ground. Her prana sensing told her so, and it had never betrayed her so far.

She considered her options. An overwhelming show of force from Berserker would make a statement, it was true. On the other hand, she didn't know how many Servants were there, although she guessed it was four. Her sense wasn't too useful at distinguishing finer details when multiple prana sources were close together, as they were in the vehicles.

Making up her mind, she motioned for Berserker and made her way towards the east end of the city, where the new arrivals would reach first. She would wait, and she would watch. And if she saw an opportunity to be had – well, then someone would be feeling Berserker's wrath first hand.

And that would be sweet.

* * *

"We dismount here." said Franz's Rider.

"We're over a kilometre away!" complained Alessandra. "Do we have to walk?!"

"_Fraulein_, a kilometre is too little. I told you" he stared pointedly at her, and then at his Master, "we should have dismounted a few kilometres back."

Franz flushed hotly. It was true that Rider made a good point, but what were the odds of someone having such high sensing power? And besides, Alessandra _had_ asked him very politely if they could continue on, and he didn't want to turn down a woman. There was also the added benefit of irking his Servant, a dislike for whom he had never got over.

"Rider, you don't have to keep bringing it up." he retorted, face still glowing with heat.

"I do." replied Rider, calmly.

"What in God's name for?" Franz's accent making it sound more like _Gott._

Rider withdrew his military fieldglasses from his belt and turned them over to his Master. "Look there, and you will realise I was right."

Franz stared, and it took his mind a little bit to recognise the danger he was facing. The silhouettes were unmistakeable. Two – human – figures were silhouetted against the driving snow, and then a small puff of smoke issued from one.

Immediately, a musket ball cut a deep furrow in the ice, ending only when it smashed into, and dented, one of the jeeps.

"Return fire." commanded Rider unhurriedly, as the two drivers jumped out of their vehicles, crouching behind the bodies of the jeeps and working the machine guns to send a hailstorm of lead back towards their unseen assailants.

The golden Rider leaped gracefully out of the jeep, commenting, "Excitement, at last, after that dull journey!" Assassin disappeared from sight, his Presence Concealment masking him entirely. Berserker roared, ripping out the door of the car he was sitting in as if it were paper, screaming forth a challenge to the two men, who had leaped away to avoid the machine gun fire.

"Assassin," said his Master, addressing the air around her generally, "you stay here near us while these three go take out the two assailants."

Castor bristled. "We don't need –"

Alessandra sighed, catching Castor's chin in her hand and making him look her in the eye. "Darling, what if one of their Masters tries to take this opportunity to attack us? A hidden Assassin will kill him when he tries it, and we'll be rid of those annoyances. Don't you agree?"

Castor blushed, mumbling an awkward agreement. Pollux walked over to him, grinning widely, and nudged his brother in the ribs, as if teasing him.

Berserker had already covered half the distance between the European Union and their assailants, and the two Riders glanced at each other for a brief moment before nodding and dashing _exactly _behind him.

The reason being that Berserker was covering his bare body with his large shield, which seemed to be taking repeated shots from the unknown assailant 's – presumably an Archer's – gun without even denting slightly. Following in his footsteps (literally) meant that they didn't have to exert themselves defending against the assault.

The golden Rider withdrew his bronze sword, and the other pulled out a large pistol. Once they neared the two, they would strike, hiding their deft attacks in the shadow of Berserker's overwhelming force.

And if push came to shove – the opposition would soon learn why fighting the Europeans was a sad mistake.

* * *

"Well, it looks laik we did tha' job." said Archer, even as his hands smoothly went through the motions of reloading his musket.

"Your weapon is not working against that beast." commented Lancer. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if nothing extraordinary were happening.

"Ah, that's juss caus' I haven't used Ol' Betsy yet on that varmint."

Lancer made no comment, and the pair watched as the three assailants charged in towards them, Berserker's roars audible over the monotonous noise of Archer's musket discharging its iron death.

"Now, I think its taim we lure them in, whatsay?"

"Very well." replied Lancer, and the two turned around, and in a smooth motion fled from the approaching enemies.

* * *

"Cowards!" roared Berserker. "Stand and fight like men!"

"Berserker, wait." cut in the German's Rider. "We should not give chase. We do not know of their abilities, nor if they have a plan set up."

The golden Rider haughtily looked at the other, as if he had deeply insulted him by asking him to stand down, but he listened to the message and stopped. The other man had a sneaking suspicion that the golden Rider was actually secretly pleased to stop, but was only pretending that he was foolhardy and courageous (the two qualities often went together) enough to charge prepared opponents.

Berserker had no such pretensions. In life, Berserker was one of the bravest men in history. As a Heroic Spirit, his mind further clouded by rage, there was no way he would stop once he caught sight of an opponent.

With an incomprehensible scream, Berserker charged forward, uncaring and unimpressed, the promise of violence cloaking him like an aura. His senses lost amidst overwhelming rage, Berserker drew his sword even as he ran. The more that fought him, the more people he could kill.

The two Riders stopped, wondering what exactly to do. Should they give chase, assuming that the three of them together could fight out of any trap? Or should they wait for the trap to be sprung on Berserker and then attack the trappers from outside?

The golden Rider seemed intent on following, but the other man much preferred the second option. They had reached an impasse; neither man able to convince the other of the supremacy of his own plan, the golden Rider stubbornly insisting they pursue (cuttingly emphasising that _**he**_was strong enough to escape any trap, thank you very much) while the other man didn't rise to the bait and advised prudence. For a second, it looked as if the golden Rider was going to continue on his own.

Then, the choice was taken out of their hands.

* * *

To the Europeans who were standing flanked by Rider's jeeps and warily keeping an eye out for any suspicious movements, they certainly spotted one.

It was just too bad that as a normal human they couldn't react fast enough to the mass of muscle that _tore_ into one of the jeeps, sending splintering metal scattering like a rain of blades. The second soldier had turned to fire with his machine gun, but the blur didn't react to the shower of bullets that caught it straight, powering through them like they were nothing more than bee stings and the second jeep and soldier soon followed the first.

As the monster stood after destroying the two jeeps and slaughtering the soldiers, the mages watched in fascinated horror as it – or rather, he – looked at them. Eight feet tall and with multiple weapons slung on his back, he roared.

Instantly, the mages knew what this was. _Berserker_, the raging beast.

"Berserker!" called a harsh feminine voice, magically amplified so the beast – and the mages – could hear. "Kill the pathetic mages. Show them what fools they have been."

It was the worst possible situation for the European Union to be in. To counter a raging force of nature such as this one, the best option for them would have been to use their own Berserker, or failing that, the two Riders working together. Now, with the mages in great danger, only Assassin – who could no more face Berserker in direct combat than a delicate knife could stop a raging bull's charge – stood between them and utter destruction; and along with them the end of the European Union's hopes.

"Assassin…" breathed Alessandra, eyes wide in fear. "Use it."

The only ways they could survive were twofold. The delicate knife would have to strike fatally in a single blow, or they would have to get more weapons. One, Assassin would instantly attack with the crystallised form of his legend, his unique _Noble Phantasm _and they would fervently hope that the surprise took out Berserker. Second, all the Masters would straightaway call back their Servants by using up one of their three Command Seals. Alessandra had immediately decided to use the first option, even as the other three focussed their wills for their Command Seals – contingent on Assassin's strike failing. After all, there was no point wasting a seal if they could end it without one.

"_Et Tu._" came a voice from nowhere, and as Berserker charged at the mages, Assassin appeared before him – there was no shimmering as he appeared, just smooth transition from non-existence to existence, revealing just how well this Assassin could conceal himself. It was only right, after all, that as the most _infamous_ assassin in all of history, a man who existed even before the Hassan-i-Sabbah created the name 'Assassin', he was unparalleled in his skill.

And somehow the person now standing in front of Berserker did not resemble Assassin at all. To the presumably astonished eyes of Berserker and his Master, it was a man – with fine Asian features – dressed in what Alessandra recognised as the traditional robes of the nobility of feudal Japan, a _katana_ sheathed at his waist.

"I am so glad to see you!" said Assassin, arms outstretched as in welcome. "It has been too long." The manipulative part of Alessandra's mind noted that Assassin was not making any statements that could contradict existing facts – he didn't call Berserker by name (obviously, since he didn't know it) and he didn't even address him by a platitude such as "my friend" as he didn't know what relation this man whose form he had taken had with Berserker.

The great beast that was Berserker paused, the mind beneath the madness rumbling slowly, the effort of long-forgotten thought and memory being brought to surface.

"Come!" continued Assassin, moving closer to Berserker. Only the mages who were standing behind him noticed the sudden glint of steel as a hidden blade appeared in Assassin's hand. "Come! Let us embrace to celebrate our meeting once again!"

And Berserker stood silent as Assassin approached, unmoving, seemingly content to be embraced by the killer in disguise.

For a second, it appeared the delicate knife had a good chance of driving itself into the heart of the raging bull.

"BERSERKER!" screamed the magically amplified voice, clearly and correctly suspecting some trick. "By the power of this Command Seal, I order you – attack!"

There was a second of silence, and then Berserker moved. In that moment, Assassin knew his charade was up, and he dove at Berserker, knife clearly visible. Berserker swung a mighty arm in a crushing blow.

The knife plunged into flesh even as the arm hit Assassin.

Luckily for Assassin, the Command Seal had not fully negated the effect of his _Noble Phantasm_, and the attack was much slower and weaker than normal, as the conflicted mind of Berserker warred with itself. The strike caught Assassin on the shoulder, sending him tumbling across the ground a fair distance; he was certain the shoulder was broken. Yet had Berserker struck him at full power Assassin had no doubt he would be much more heavily injured, and possibly useless for a large portion of this war.

Luckily for Berserker, the Command Seal had worked in time enough to block off Assassin from driving the knife into his heart. Instead, it had buried itself, hilt-deep, into _his_ arm – but Berserker made no movement, no response indicating he had felt it.

The mages made their move.

"Rider, appear!" called Castor and Franz simultaneously, the golden Rider and the uniformed one appearing out of thin air, hesitating a split-second at the situation, and drawing their weapons to face Berserker. The tiny noise made by the shattering of the two Command Seals was the only sound audible for a second.

"Brutus…so these are the Europeans…Berserker, retreat." grumbled the voice, and perhaps it was Berserker's conflicted mind about his attack of someone he clearly trusted, but the Servant obeyed his Master unquestioningly and immediately, turning and leaving the battlefield with all haste.

Alessandra winced as she realised the Asians knew the identity of her Servant. It was clear they were Asians, since the Servant's 'most-trusted person' was Japanese; so this Berserker was also probably Japanese.

"We should chase him." said the golden Rider. "He is injured."

"No…" whispered Franz. "That is not an injury to that monster. He has…he has EX-rank Endurance…"

The other mages, who had also noted that fact, were silent for a second. A Servant with EX-rank Endurance would require multiple – if not a dozen – fatal blows to strike down. It was their good fortune that Assassin plunging his knife into Berserker had revealed that statistic about Berserker before they pursued a seemingly 'wounded' enemy. Presumably, if Assassin had been struck by a Berserker at full-strength, they would 'learn' his strength ranking, but no one wished for that possibility.

The group collected themselves.

"What of _my_ Berserker?" spoke Pollux, his mind returning to his Servant.

The group stared at each other for a second. How had they forgotten about _him_? Without another word, the group began running towards the city. They could always call back Berserker, of course, but if they made their way there they could assist him in destroying whoever was behind the appearance of the other Servants.

In the mood they were in, fear giving way to belligerence, it seemed the best way.

* * *

"Begin the ambush now." said Kent into his mobile phone, snapping it shut with a flick of his wrist.

It was a simple plan. Draw in the hot-headed, and when they were chasing two outwardly weak Servants, the two Sabers would appear from where they had hidden within buildings – the four Servants surrounding the targets, ensnaring them and then destroying them.

Kent wondered why only one Servant – a Berserker, it seemed – had taken them up on the offer. Still, it just made things easier.

And like a well-oiled machine, the trap was sprung perfectly. Berserker was without any cover at the middle of a cross-roads, with Archer in front of him and Lancer to his left; O'Shea's Saber to his right and Kent's behind him.

It was insurmountable odds. **Two** Sabers, an Archer and a Lancer against one single Servant? It would be a massacre. Only a madman would enjoy being the victim of such a battle.

Yet Kent shifted uneasily. When the Berserker had realised he was surrounded and outnumbered, why had he _begun smiling_?

* * *

The African Caster bent down as a spider scurried to him, letting it crawl on his finger and bringing it up to his face. After staring at it for a second and nodding his head, he turned to his counterpart from Polynesia.

"We have one poor little fly all alone. Shall we?"

Silently, the other Caster nodded.

"You, or me?"

"I will." replied the other man, standing up.

"Oh, how interesting!" Caster smiled gleefully. "I will come and watch."

"Go ahead."

With that, a flare of magical energy engulfed the both of them, and they disappeared.

* * *

So there's the chapter! How was it? Reviews are my lifeblood .


	4. Casualty

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did own FSN, I would at least be rich enough to own my own laptop.

* * *

**Note One:** Hurrah! This fic, and my other one, _Infinite Paths_, have both been recommended on TVTropes! Thank you to my loyal readers!

**Note Two:** Another note about the mechanics of this war. I have assumed that by some form of magic all remaining combatants will know the identities of any fighters who have been killed instantly, to provide a 'live update' as it were. It can be taken to be a part of the _Heaven's Feel_, much like Masters 'know' the stats of the Servants they look at.

* * *

O'Shea was shocked, and he didn't care who knew it; a steady stream of rather inventive profanity filled the mobile phones of his three allies as he stared at what was going on beneath them (the four Masters perched rather precariously on the roofs of a faraway building, observing the battle through military binoculars).

"What the bloody hell is that bastard?" he half-shouted, as the European Berserker's sword flashed once more, nearly decapitating Cetanwakuwa's Lancer, who was hard-pressed to avoid it.

The other three made no comment, their jaws slipping unconsciously as they watched one lone figure fight off four Servants – two among whom were Sabers, supposedly the mightiest of all classes. The stats of the Berserker flashed across their eyes as he moved, a reinforcing counterpoint to his rage.

The Berserker ducked gracefully under the slash of Kent's Saber, sliding forward and nearly taking off a knee. _A+ rank agility._

Archer's futile hail of bullets caught the Berserker flush on his unprotected back, but the beast shook them off as easily as if they were made of paper. _A++ rank Endurance._

He stopped O'Shea's Saber's powerful, armoured fist with his hand and swung in a graceful arc with the hilt of his sword, sending the Saber careening backwards, making a foot-deep dent into the wall. _A+ rank Strength._

Lancer's thrown spear somehow slightly missed its mark, scoring a gouge into Berserker's shield rather than his torso. _B+ rank Luck._

And the four Masters knew that his Berserker had not yet fully activated his _Mad Enhancement_, which would further boost his skills. In a simple sense, they were terrified. What was this mad beast? An army by himself? Some sort of God given form?

And then as the four Servants unconsciously closed together as one, trying to overwhelm Berserker with the sheer weight of numbers did the four Masters get their answer, as the Personal Skill that had allowed Berserker to fight on an even footing with the four burned itself into their minds.

O'Shea was the first one to verbalize it. "A-Rank _Strength of the Outnumbered_." he said. "Well, f—k me." An incredibly rare skill, as the name suggested it gave the warrior a boost when his foes outnumbered him. Berserker's ranking in the skill meant he was essentially fighting with stats boosted by one-and-a-half ranks.

"In any case," said Kent, breaking the silence and watching his Saber be parried again, "he isn't unbeatable."

The other three shifted uneasily, not reassured. Their options were to fight Berserker as is and hope to overwhelm him, to call away three Servants so they could fight him one-on-one and negate his skill, or to retreat. The first assumed they could beat him, doubtful if he activated Mad Enhancement as well. No Master wanted to send his Servant to be the one-on-one fighter. And the third option meant the loss of pride of the entire United Kingdom, since one man had fought away four of their strongest weapons.

Luckily, their decision was made for them. "R-reinforcements incoming!" yelped Jill, her enhanced eyes scanning the distance. "Seven hostiles!" At a rough estimate, that meant a minimum of three Servants. "They look like the Europeans."

Kent gritted his teeth, considering the options. "We pull back." Reinforcements would neutralise the Berserker's advantage, but it would descend into absolute chaos – a four on four Servant battle, and there were just too many unknown factors for Kent to consider fighting that way.

Even the normally bellicose O'Shea didn't demur, and the four Servants were recalled in all haste – O'Shea's Saber grumbling slightly, but the other three seemed to take the loss philosophically and they disappeared. The last thing they heard before fleeing the area was Berserker's roar that they were cowards and unfit to be men.

It had been a dismal day for the United Kingdom.

* * *

"Ha!" laughed Pollux. "Our cowardly enemies have fled before my Berserker!"

The European Union had reached the battlefield just in time to hear Berserker screaming insults into the distance and smashing the nearby building with his sword in frustration.

"Excellent work, brother." remarked Castor, eyeing the silently fuming Berserker, who was visibly irritated at not being able to fight. "We fended off a Servant, and now we fought off another group. The war goes well."

"Of course," remarked the golden Rider, draping an arm casually over Berserker's shoulders, "We Greeks are fearsome warriors. No one can stand before us!" Then, ignoring Berserker's growl (which seemed to convey a sense of disdain for the golden man and a harsh command not to count them both in the same category) he walked over to the uniformed Rider and stared him in the eye. "I told you, did I not, that we should have assisted my fellow Greek?"

The other man gave no reply, staring evenly into the eyes of the golden Rider. Slightly unnerved, the golden Rider turned and observed, "Some warriors show no courage whatsoever." The other Rider refused to be drawn by this comment, turning away to examine the battlefield, and Franz sighed in relief. The last thing they needed was a fight between the two Riders.

"Darling, are you hurt badly?" cooed Alessandra, examining her Assassin's shoulder. "Can you still fight?"

"I can." said Assassin. "But my identity is compromised."

"Never mind that, darling." she replied. "We'll just have to use you better."

"Also, Master…" said Assassin, and there was steel in his voice, "I will _not_ use It again unless I have to. I had to use it to save your life, but I will not use it casually. It is the memory…" he sighed, "of my greatest mistake."

Even Alessandra was slightly intimidated by the force in his voice. But then, she could understand him. Forcing Marcus Junius Brutus, an honourable man who had betrayed a friend who trusted him implicitly, to revel in his betrayal again and again? No, she would not do it unless she had no other choice. Silently, she nodded.

This reassured Assassin, who dissipated into spiritual form once more to heal himself faster.

"So tell us, Berserker," said Pollux, "as much as you can about your opponents."

* * *

"- I repeat, I know who the other Assassin is. It's Marcus Junius Brutus." Izanami's harsh voice rang in Sa'd's ears as his communications earpiece buzzed with her information.

"How do you know?" came the slightly petulant voice of Wei, who Sa'd had no doubt considered the fact that Izanami had been in the first battle an affront to his pride.

"His _Noble Phantasm _was called _Et Tu_ and he was with the Europeans." hissed Izanami. "Who do you think he could be, you fool?"

Silence over the link once more, although Sa'd wondered if the slight background disturbance he could hear was the sound of the Monkey King's laughter at his Master's expense. It sounded a likely thing, and Sa'd let himself sigh quietly. Wei would no doubt be even more angered by this, and seek out battle to 'prove' his superiority. Perhaps he would have a quiet word with him later.

Sa'd was still pondering this when, with a harsh rending sound, the pipe of one of the washbasins split open and a jet of water shot out to catch him squarely in the back - completely unawares - and sending him colliding into the wall with the sheer pressure of the water.

Whirling around as best his water-soddened robes and disoriented mind would allow him, he froze. For in front of him were two figures, one smiling at him and one staring blank-faced, the two undoubtedly Servants. And from the water that was swirling around the feet of the latter, he could tell that this was his assailant.

Swearing in his native tongue, Sa'd scrabbled backwards, releasing his magic in a harsh stream of sand that would have flayed the skin off any man and chipped away even at the strongest metal. Of course, his assailants were no mere mortals, and the sand stream dissipated harmlessly as a flare of unfocused prana from the Servants caught it.

"Assassin!" screamed Sa'd, voice cracking. "Come to me!"

Such was the power of a Command Seal that a Servant who was miles away, hunting for his own prey, instantly transcended otherwise inviolable space and time to appear before his Master. It took but a second for Assassin to sum up the situation, and resort to what he knew was his – and his Master's – only chance.

"_Zabaniya-"_ he called, beginning the activation of the unique Noble Phantasm that all Hassan-i-Sabbah had, the ultimate representation of the men who had brought the word _Assassin_ into the dictionary, the absolute leaders of the _Hashashin._

He was too late. It had taken him but a second – and yet in a fraction of that time the other Caster attacked, his magic informing him that a Command Seal had been used and allowing him the luxury of a second extra to prepare his assault. To someone as powerful as Caster was, it was as if he had an eternity to prepare. And for someone who looked like he was in his eighties, Caster attacked with all the speed and ferocity of someone sixty years his junior.

"_Net of Hephaestus." _called the Caster, and a _Noble Phantasm_ representing the golden net used by the Greek Forge-God Hephaestus to capture his wife and her lover – both Gods – shimmered into existence around Assassin, wrapping his outstretched arm tight to his body and sending him stumbling into the wall, where he wriggled helplessly. The bonds of the _Noble Phantasm_ had been forged by a God to ensnare another God, and few Servants could escape it once trapped, even if Caster was only using a weakened version of the original item. To an Assassin, who was little more than useless in a straight fight, it might well have been unbreakable.

Sa'd stared in uncomprehending terror. His mind whirred frantically, telling him that the net was a _Noble Phantasm_ of Greek origin, and concluding that the Caster was some ancient Greek hero – and yet the Caster was dark-skinned and didn't have the traditional Greek features; a contradiction that left the rational part of Sa'd's mind stumbling to form a conclusion. Was this Caster indeed Greek? Was he a non-Greek who somehow had a Greek _Noble Phantasm_?

Simultaneously, the visceral part of Sa'd's mind kicked into high gear, the rising adrenaline triggering the instinctual flight response of an animal facing its predator. Turning on his heel in a flash, Sa'd kicked off the ground, flying forwards in an almost perfect textbook football tackle, arms braced in front of his head as he crashed through the window that was behind him. He was one floor up, but he would take his chances with the drop.

For a brief moment, Sa'd believed he would make it, as he flew out of the window like a missile, curling his legs up to land better. Then something hit him painfully on the back of his head, and everything went dark.

The other Caster stared impassively, lowering his hand from where a bullet of water had emerged to drive itself into Sa'd skull, the bullet continuing onwards to make a large crater in the wall of the opposing building. With a dull _thunk_, Sa'd's corpse landed on the frozen roads of the city, the pooling blood crystallising in seconds.

Assassin slowly began fading away, his link to the mortal coil severed unceremoniously. For Sa'd al-Malik and Hassan-i-Sabbah, the war was over.

And the message went out to the remaining fighters and the world governments. The Grail World War had claimed its first victim.

* * *

"No…" said Ved, collapsing into a rather comfortable sofa placed in the building he had chosen for his base. "Sa'd – Sa'd is already dead?!"

Archer said nothing, watching his Master silently as he stared blankly into the darkness.

"Archer." said Ved, snapping to attention with a jerk. "We will show these –" he swore in Hindi "what we can do. No more hiding."

Archer nodded. "An excellent decision!" he roared. "We will take to the skies tomorrow and destroy all we come across."

Ved nodded, his jaw clenched in determination, his entire body tensed.

"This is Wei." buzzed his earpiece. "I am going on the hunt tomorrow." Wei's normally well modulated voice seemed to crack slightly in anger.

"So am I." replied Ved, and had the pleasure of listening to what he took to be a stunned silence from the other end. Wei considered him a coward, he knew. No doubt it would surprise him that Ved would set out in revenge of Sa'd.

"Don't get in my way." came the eventual reply.

"Or mine." cut in Izanagi, who had clearly listened to the entire conversation.

"Fine." replied Ved, and the airwaves were silent once more.

* * *

"This is abominable!" shouted a man, gesturing at a slight figure who was wearing traditional Arabic robes. "Your mage has been defeated in less than a day! What are our brave warriors to do without capable help?"

"Indeed." continued another. "I had expected your territories to send us proper warriors, not incompetents."

The third made a harsh murmur of agreement.

The man they were speaking to rose, his robes shifting in the slight breeze from the air-conditioning. "My friends," he said, placatingly. "I do not deny that Sa'd al-Malik has dishonoured our name, and for that his family will be punished."

"How is that going to help us?"

"However," continued the man, unruffled, "our top mages have been – working hard on this problem for the last few hours, and we believe" he paused for effect "we have discovered a loophole."

"When you say 'believe'-" started one man.

"A poor choice of words, honourable delegate." replied the Arab, folding his hands. "I misspoke. What I meant to say is, our mages havedefinitely discovered a loophole in the _Heaven's Feel._"

The air suddenly grew thick, and an aura of palpable tension was almost visible. Loopholes in the rules of such an important event were of crucial importance. It was no exaggeration to say that most nations in the world would give half their territories for one.

"What sort of loophole?"

Instead of replying, the Arab clapped his hands, and the door opened.

A man dressed in the traditional all-concealing Arabic robes walked in. But what drew everyone's attention was the figure trailing behind him, a being who radiated power beyond men. Dressed in a loose white robe, with some jewellery hanging off it and a golden crown framing a bearded, regal face, the man was clearly a Servant.

"My friends." said the Arabian delegate, an ill-concealed smile of satisfaction on his face. "Please welcome Khalid Issam…and his Servant, Avenger."

* * *

So there's the chapter! How was it? Reviews are my lifeblood .

Fate Mundi Bellum: Statsheets has been updated.


	5. Developments

Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did own FSN, I would at least be rich enough to own my own laptop.

* * *

The wind whipped through Ved's hair as he fought hard to keep himself balanced. Luckily enough, he had never had a problem with airsickness, and he thanked the Gods for it – he knew what he was riding on, and how his Servant would react were he to sully it.

_It's amazing,_ he reflected, _how being here makes everything seem so…small._

Ved could barely make out anything at the heights they were flying, even the buildings seemingly blending into the ground, but he had no doubt Archer noticed every single shadow and movement over the city. It just served to emphasize how _powerful_ these Servants were compared to mortal men.

The divine horses pulling the celestial chariot they were riding on whinnied, their bodies glowing like burnished gold as their hoofs galloped over the empty air like it was solid ground.

To an onlooker, it looked like there was a new Sun in the sky.

Jill walked over to the window of the base the United Kingdom and the Americas were holed up in, staring into the sky, a sense of wonderment overwhelming her. "What…what is that?"

Archer calmly pulled back the string of his bow.

"Hey, Archer, come here and see this!" said Jill, motioning to her musket-wielding Archer. "Tell me, it's amazing, isn't it?" The man walked over to the window, humouring his Master, and looked outside.

Archer released his arrow, the speed making it seem like little more than a streak of gold as it flashed across the sky.

Jill wondered what was going on, as she bumped her head against the wall; her Archer's sudden tackle pushing her away. She was soon answered, as a blaze of gold buried itself into the ground where she had stood, carving a gash in the floor of their apartment.

The United Kingdom and the Americas would have to fight again.

* * *

"Now is our chance." muttered Pollux, turning to the rest of the European Union. The eight of them were perched on a roof watching as the golden chariot rained arrows, to which the victims of the assault were replying with a hailstorm of bullets. The battle had reached a deadlock, though, with the people on the ground being too fast for the arrows to strike them, and the chariot being too strong for the bullets to do any damage – the other three Servants of the United Kingdom-Americas had little to nothing that could attack an aerial enemy.

"That appears to be the group Berserker fought yesterday, based on his description." noted Castor, gesturing at the fleetfooted Servants.

"We will only get one surprise attack." said Franz, grimly. "We should plan it well and make it count."

"Boys," drawled Alessandra, amusement glinting in her eyes, "do you have to state the obvious?"

There was a moment of silence while the three men glanced furtively at each other, mildly chastised by the statement.

"I have nothing to fight the man in the air." growled Berserker.

"Neither do I." added Assassin.

The golden Rider mumbled a concession, clearly reluctant to admit that he was unable to do something.

"I do." said Franz's Rider, and the group turned as one to regard him.

"In any case," said Castor, looking at the Rider with interest, "we can always beat that group again."

"True, brother." said Pollux. "Why, Berserker himself might be enough for it."

"However, the man in the air is the real danger to us. We cannot allow him to proceed unchecked."

Alessandra smiled playfully, not verbalising her thoughts that the three of them were at it again.

"Very well, Rider!" declared Franz. "Do what you must."

"It will require using my _Noble Phantasm._" stated Rider, clearly insistent that his Master knew what his actions would require before he carried them out.

"Do it." confirmed Franz.

Rider nodded, and still with that calm and implacable air about him, spoke. "_Werkzeuge des Krieges.__" _

The roof was bare save for the eight figures for a second. Then, with a loud grinding and clanking noise, where there was but air one minute, there was metal and oil the next. A sleek, menacing long-barrelled gun emplacement had just appeared on the roof like it was always present there.

"A…A Reality Marble?" gasped Alessandra. Her surprise was understandable. In millennia of human history, very few – less than 0.0000001 per cent of all of humanity that had ever lived – had achieved this feat. It required the person to have a fundamental mindset differing from all of humanity; a feat that emphasised the twisted nature of its bearer, and something that differentiated the merely powerful from the godlike.

"I am not so talented, _fraulein_." replied the Rider, his voice sombre. "My tools are but a pale imitation of one." Then, turning to the two uniformed soldiers who had appeared alongside the gun and were smartly saluting him, he ordered, "Fire the _Acht-Acht_."

With a thunderous roar, the barrels of the machine gun spun wildly as its working parts moved, and the two men manning the machine took their positions, one feeding its heavy shells into the gun and the other aiming and firing. The entire operation took but a few seconds.

A second less and they might have had Archer.

His sharp eyes noticing every detail on the ground, honed from years of using his flying chariot, the Indian Archer threw the chariot into a sharp climb, switching his attention from the four harmless (to him) on the ground to the menacing barrel of the machine, and firing an arrow that mixed its gold with a blazing red. The entire process took but two seconds.

One less and he might have won the encounter decisively.

The _Acht-Acht_ fired, its deadly payload of hot metal spiralling through the air, but missing the incredibly manoeuvrable chariot by a good margin; the gunner desperately swivelled the barrel to point at the new location of the chariot, but he was too late.

The red-and-gold arrow struck the roof on which they were standing.

The four Servants acted as one in withdrawing from the location, their Masters held firmly in hand, one second enough to convince them of the efficacy and sense of the decision. It was none too soon.

The roof burst into flames, devouring tongues of fire that reached out to incinerate the hapless men, their screams clearly audible over the crackling flame that instantly appeared from the point of contact of the arrow. In seconds, even the sturdy metal of the _Acht-Acht_ buckled and melted under the otherworldly heat.

The four Masters stared at the roof in silence, each vaguely understanding that he would have been there but for the action of a single split-second.

The Archer bellowed triumphantly, turning his attention back to the four he was earlier targeting on the ground –

Only to discover that they had taken the opportunity to seek cover somewhere, and were staying _extremely_ still, so still that he couldn't see even the slightest motion.

His triumph changing to anger, and seemingly only a few moments from turning his attention to his second group of enemies, the Europeans quietly dispersed themselves, their good nature from their successes deflating rapidly. A taste of reality had been dealt.

Now how would they regroup from their first taste of defeat?

* * *

"You saw that." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course." smiled the African Caster. "It would be hard to miss."

"So tell me now. Who is it?"

"It's not definite, you understand." replied the old man, shrugging. "There are multiple tales of flying vehicles. I couldn't even see the Master to learn, or to guess his nationality."

The Polynesian Caster hissed his displeasure, a chilling sound that didn't even faze the old man.

"Ah, to roam the sky," said the African, smiling wistfully, "I could see my Father every day. Truly, that Archer wields some amazing tools. His story must be legend."

The other Caster didn't comment on this sudden flight of fancy.

"What of the Servant with the gun?"

"That's even more difficult." remarked the African. "At least with the flying man I can narrow it down to a dozen or so people. But for the other…the only conclusion I have is that he is German and fought in the Second of these World Wars, since the machine he called forth was an _Acht-Acht_, or Eighty-Eight, a famous anti-aircraft – I believe that is the right term – weapon."

"You understand," he continued, "this modern age of mass production has greatly reduced the tales attached to one single object, making it much harder for me to discern anything."

The only response he heard was a _splash_ and the other man was gone.

Smiling knowingly, the African returned to watching a spider painstakingly build its web.

* * *

"Bloody fucking brilliant!" swore O'Shea, as he turned angrily onto the four Servants and the other Masters, crouched as they were in the basement of an abandoned building. "Absolutely brilliant! We can't beat the pissy Europeans in a four-on-one fight, and now _apparently_ we can't even **touch** those Easterns! What a bloody sorry lot you are!"

There was complete silence among the group. Successive, embarrassing defeats had left their morale incredibly low.

Jill huddled next to the heater, shivering. She had never considered this! She and Ketty had been planning the ways they could defeat the two Sabers – but now the harsh dose of reality had struck, and their plan of piggybacking on the efforts of the Sabers until the end of the war seemed futile. What on earth were they to do?

Was it a war they just _could not _win?

And if so, what would the Americas do?

* * *

"Tch." muttered Wei, punching the wall in frustration. "None of them are walking around singly, and that Indian idiot has scared them all into hiding. We can't even find anyone."

"It was impressive!" shrieked the Monkey King, clearly not paying attention. "You think he'll give me a ride if I ask?"

Wei sighed. "I doubt it." he replied, curtly. "You know how strangely he looked at you when you announced you were the Monkey King. Knowing his legend...he isn't likely to like monkeys one single iota."

"Still, what in Buddha's name are we to do now?" he asked, staring blankly into the ceiling. "How do we fight? The war has reached a stalemate."

Wei eyed his Servant, who seemed genuinely contemplative for once. Had the message got through? Would the razor wit of the Lancer focus on this new problem?

"How can anyone not like monkeys?" cried Lancer, his face a picture of shock. He had clearly been thinking about this for the last minute.

Wei banged his head on the wall.

* * *

With a indistinct thrumming, the camouflaged submarine containing Avenger and his Master reached the shores near the city, only a few miles away from where the Europeans had once stood. Avenger bent down and took a fistful of snow in his hand.

Staring at it, he spoke. "You said it has barely been a day since the war began."

His master nodded.

"And yet," continued Avenger, "there are already crimes that must be punished."

Closing his fist and crushing the snow, he tossed it casually away and started striding towards the city.

Avenger had arrived.

The War would never be the same again.

* * *

So there's the chapter! How was it? Reviews are my lifeblood .


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